A few years ago, I turned my parents’ attic into a guest bedroom—drawn by the sunlit romance of Provence and the haunting beauty of Justin Timberlake’s Mirrors. Normally, when I revisit a space I've styled, I feel compelled to adjust, to refresh. But this one? It seems immune to time.
Perhaps because it was never chasing trends.
Minimalism and baroque might sound at odds, yet in soft, muted tones, they whisper rather than clash. It’s a quiet kind of drama—subtle, layered, and serene. Not for everyone, but perfectly, unapologetically, me.
The heart of the room is a mirror, which hangs where a window might be, catching the light and reflecting the room back at itself. It doesn’t just decorate—it performs. Pretending to be a window, it opens the space in illusion, while adding a whisper of grandeur.
The palette is mostly white, touched with whispers of grey and soft turquoise—hues that feel like breathing out. Light dances through the room, washing over whitewashed wood and cloud-colored textiles. It’s calm. Quiet. A retreat for the senses.
But then there’s the contrast: fancy, ornate mirrors, their frames bold and unapologetically baroque. They catch the light in dramatic flashes and reflect corners of the room in unexpected ways, adding just the right amount of flair—like a whispered echo of a palace ballroom in an otherwise peaceful sanctuary.
Minimalism meets baroque. Clean lines softened by muted tones. Drama, but only in glances. It’s a contradiction on paper, but in practice, it works—delicate, moody, and somehow timeless.
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